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“My hair color card.” I stand up again, holding my fist, and start my pacing again, this time a little closer than before. “I blame the wine. And my best friend, Tara. She got me all excited, and, well, after a bottle … and a half … I thought,You know what? Enough is enough. That witch has my house and my kids on the weekends, and she wore my robe and used my waffle iron while makingmykids breakfast inmygourmet kitchen, and I was so damn tired of her having everything.”
“So, you—”
“Went to the salon and used the back door while the cleaning crew was there. It’s not breaking and entering if the door is literally open.”
“Mrs. Jones, I have to stop you before you say any more.”
His use of the married abbreviation halts my steps. “It’sMissJones. Thank you for not calling me ma’am again. It makes me feel so old. There should be a rule you can’t call a woman ma’am until she’s older than forty, which I am nowhere near.”
“You’re thirty-four,” he states with a smile as he comes up to the bars, out of the shadows and into the light that my cell provides.
I stand up straighter as my heart freezes.
My chest rises as he closes in, and I have to clear my throat.
“I know,” I stammer rather breathlessly. While I am a little worked up from the pacing, fist punching, and overall self-deprecation, I’m mostly taken aback by how handsome he is.
Tall, broad shoulders, square jaw, and a killer grin. Officers shouldn’t have grins like this—the kind that gives a mischievous wink of the eye, which are both hazel and piercing. The kind that gives him divots in his cheeks and makes a woman weak in the knees. I’d confess to murder if he smiled at me like that because I’d be so hypnotized that I wouldn’t realize what I was saying.
He places a key in the cell lock. “I have to stop you there because I spoke with your ex-husband, Tyler Landish, and Miss Mirlicourtois. He said he gave you permission to be in the salon, and she is not pressing charges.”
The lock clicks, and the door opens. As the steel moves away, he holds it and gestures for me to step out.
“Oh.” I feel a little embarrassed. I just poured my heart out to this man, and for no reason, as he’s clearly releasing me. “So, I’m good to go?”
“Yes, ma—” He pauses, as if catching himself before saying ma’am. “Ms. Jones. You are free to go, so long as you can confirm that what Mr. Landish and Ms. Mirlicourtois said is correct.”
“Yes!” My shoulders are squared, and my chin is held high. “That’s what happened.”
“Then, you’re free to go.”
He closes the cell door behind me, and I look up at him.
When he was standing on the other side of the room, he felt imposing, and I can see why. His tall height, paired with his lean yet muscular frame in that fitted uniform, is quite impressive. White teeth, tan skin, and a jawline that could slice granite, he could be a poster boy for the police department. It would make me join the academy.
I look back at the cell and think about all the things I said in there. “Is there any form of officer-felon privilege?”
His eyes widen, and it looks like he’s going to choke on his own air. I stare at him in confusion until it dawns on me that what I said sounded way worse than what I intended.
“Oh God. No! Not that kind of privilege. I mean, like what we were saying. Like the barber shop. What’s said behind the bars, stays behind the bars. Because some of the things I said in there, while true, aren’t exactly—”
“You’re good.” He gives that damn winky smile again.
“Thank you,” I say with a shaky breath and glance at the tag on his uniform.
W. Bronson.
He leads me out of the room and into the main room of the police station. In a quiet place like Valor County, there isn’t a ton of criminal activity. A few officers are at desks, including my arresting officer. I give him a sneer as we pass and follow Officer Bronson to the front of the room, where my ex-husband, Tyler, is seated in a wooden chair.
As we approach, Tyler stands.
I blink at him a few times and then look at Officer Bronson and back to Tyler. My eyebrows squish together. “Why are you here?”
My ex looks at me with a mixture of exhaustion and annoyance. “Maisie came down here to give a statement, and then we had to switch because someone needs to watch the children. It’s way too late for a woman, especially one who’s possibly still drunk, to take an Uber alone. So, unless you want me to wake your father up to come down here to drive you home, I suggest you let me give you a lift.”
The problem with dating someone since you were fifteen is that they know everything about you and your family. My father, Gavin Jones, would be far more ornery than usual if we woke him up for a reason other than the fact that someone was lying dead in a ditch.
“Fine. Let’s go.” I’m about to walk out when a warm, strong hand touches my arm. I turn to see Officer Bronson pulling me back.
